Their Christmas Candle
by dragondreamingsprout
Summary: His calendar doesn't celebrate the box holding the two figures, or their significance. Christmas is just like any other day. Reidcentric. Drug use. Twelve days leading up to Christmas. Merry Christmas:
1. Day 1

_Disclaimer: ok, this goes for the whole fic cos i usually forget and i dont want anyone reading this FANfic to get the wrong idea, i dont own Criminal Minds. Obviously. If i did i think i'd be able to afford broadband. _

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Their Christmas Candle

_"Isn't it funny that at Christmas something in you gets so lonely for - I don't know what exactly, but it's something you don't mind so much not having at other times." - Kate L. Bosher_

The clear liquid reflects his haunted, shadowed gaze. Distorted. Everything is distorted. Nothing appears normal in his eyes anymore. The previously solid, sturdy walls of his apartment - of his life - seem to waver around him like coral in a current as he lies prone on the floor. His bed, the doorways leading out of this place, the monochrome calendar on the wall; they're all moving out of sync. Life is crumbling. After all that's happened it's hard to believe that he could ever be normal again. He wonder's if it will be possible. He dearly hopes so. He used to like his life.

Now it's a struggle. A constant battle. He likes to think it's a battle. Because in battles there are casualties. And he's always liked to keep his options open. He would rather think it a hard uphill struggle, a fight, because that way if he fails at least he's tried. And that will count for something.

If he admits it's simply a failure - a temptation - and he gives in... He doesn't think he can handle being weak. His eyes stare back at him accusingly as they float and wave insubstantially in the clear liquid. He loses sight of himself as his eyes drift upwards, finding a floating number overhead. 25. His calendar doesn't celebrate the box holding the two figures, or their significance. Christmas is just like any other day. Just another box of nothing. Just like the eleven between now and then. Not long now, he thinks absently. It seems irrelevant. It all does as he lies miserably alone on the carpet.

He used to like his life. Now it's a battle. One he's not sure he wants to win.

xxx

_My first CM fic... ahh! :) Didnt want to do badly but i guess with a first fic its inevitable... or its just me :) - either way let me know what you think? Its all written and will be updated once a day 'til christmas :) (yup, first christmas fic and its a depressing series of too-long drabbles on Reid's habit... im a bundle of laughs huh :) just_ _hope i didnt do too badly :) -- oh, and there will be a plot... promise :) thanks for reading :)_

_have fun x_


	2. Day 2

Their Christmas Candle

_"Christmas, children, is not a date. It is a state of mind." - Mary Ellen Chase_

He walks into the office, that teeming mess of people, similar yet entirely different to his apartment and it's teeming mess of books. He's feeling far too nervous in a place that used to feel more like home than the place he sleeps and... does other things. He feels their eyes on him all day. Those understanding sympathetic eyes that tell him they dont understand at all. In them he sees only concern, a concern that blocks the familiar emotions he's used to. Where he used to see friendship, a bond so close they were family, now he only sees concern. He's become a concern. And it proves how little they understand. How little he's worth.

All they know is that he isn't himself lately. That he looks tired and fragile and weak - he hates being weak - and that he's getting worse.

Each individual set of eyes hits him sickeningly, like a physical blow, all aimed at his back as he cant bear to turn and face it. He feels cornered. So he takes control and walks casually to get some coffee, cornering himself further. It will be ok, as long as he's in control. His hand tightens, fists atop his messenger bag. He needs to maintain that control. Without it he will break. And he's been fighting so hard, been so good. He wont be weak. The small sparkling tufts of tinsel sitting around the coffee pot seem to wink obnoxiously at him, mirroring the eyes at his back that he's trying so hard to escape.

xxx

_Another bunch of angst, perfect for the Xmas season - please review and let me know just how crap you think this is :)_


	3. Day 3

Their Christmas Candle

_"To perceive Christmas through its wrapping becomes more difficult with every year." - E. B. White_

Gideon seems worried. Staring at him all day in silent contemplation. Like any other day really, but with a new urgency. He feels like there is a particularly large, hot, glaring spotlight on him and it makes him sweat as he sits uncomfortably on the jet's smooth seats. Or maybe it's because of the phials - still almost full; he's being good - in his bag. The one's that keep calling to him. He can't think of them that way though. They're not alive and they aren't calling him, he's just listening too hard. Too specifically. He can't hear the others talking to him - about him - he can't hear the music JJ has started playing quietly. Only the ever-silent phials.

He decides to focus on the current case to block out the silence. He concentrates especially hard on each word, each letter to make sure he doesn't miss anything and in doing so misses everything; misses the meaning behind the words.

Each member of the team give him varying looks of pity - he hates being weak - as Hotch repeats himself. Sitting in his uncomfortable seat, amongst those who have become so concerned they seem less like friends, and discussing the latest case which seems so apart from his own life, so outside and separate and incomparable that he can't take it in properly no matter how many times Hotch explains it, he finds it harder than ever to ignore the phials which aren't really calling to him. He still hears them. He still doesn't notice the sweeter, softer tone of the carols that lilt in the pressurized air.

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_Thankyou so much to those who have reviewed, you're all awesome :)_

_have fun x_


	4. Day 4

Their Christmas Candle

_"For the spirit of Christmas fulfils the greatest hunger of mankind." - Loring A. Schuler_

It's been days, he's sure. He craves the feeling more than anything and yet the forty minutes ago - the forty minutes that he's sure were really days ago - that the needle last pierced his skin is still too recent and he knows what the consequences could be if he gives in. Oh, he wants to give in. He doesn't even know what stops him, just that he should be stopped. So he does. He stops. But it's too late. He's already failed, given in, again. And he was being so good.

He's lying in a rather strange position on his bed when he regains enough awareness to realise it. He rolls off awkwardly. And lands hard. He's sure that should have been painful. The angle his arm is bent at cannot possibly be normal. Nevertheless, he stands. Still awkward. Always awkward.

He realises he's in the shower, unsure of how he managed to get here from the bed. Then he's on the hard tiled floor and the water raining down from above is too high, too cold. It pelts his sensitive skin, his back, his arms, his legs; with droplets tiny enough - insubstantial enough - that they shouldn't sting. They shouldn't but they do. He doesn't want to admit how far he's fallen. He's shivering, now in a corner of the shower. Looking up, the tiles seem to stem from where the naked, hyper-aware skin of his back meets their coolness; above, below, both sides. As though his pale skin is where these whiter than white tiles originate from. He wonders why their stark monotony seems to be missing something. No twinkle, no colour here. Just cold and white and stinging and awkwardness. He's quietly shivering in a corner of the world as he ignores the dull throbs of his arm and the tears on his cheeks that could have been the too-cold water from above. Could be, but aren't.

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_Things will look up soon, 'til then... sorry :) -- and just quietly, I love reviews :), let me know if I'm being a bit too mean (or depressing),_

_have fun x_


	5. Day 5

Their Christmas Candle

_"There's nothing sadder in the world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child." - Erma Bombeck_

He's late. Still in the shower. Somehow he must have turned off the water, but he doesn't remember doing so. He fell asleep. Holding his knees to his chest, he sits naked in his corner of the world, shivering in the shower as the cold hard tiles flow outwards, away from him. He has to wonder, is he the reason such starkness exists in the world? These bare, cold, white tiles that look like they're born directly from his now very pale skin, do they really come from him? Is their indifference his fault?

He knows he is late because he knows the voice that penetrates his thoughts, the voice that is at the door. Gideon. Gideon has been knocking and calling loudly for awhile now. That can't be good.

He's in his room, the sudden blip in time startling his now too-clear mind for a moment. That also can't be good. He's supposed to be in control. He's supposed to remember everything. Including the previous ten minutes and what he did in them. Instead he has only brief moments of clarity surrounded by a swirling haze of grey nothingness. He thinks of his mother. He forgot to send a card this year.

He opens the door hesitantly, noting it is dark outside and wondering just how much time he has missed, glad that his mind is clear enough to have allowed him clothes and a quick tidy before doing so. No evidence to suggest anything untoward except the tremor in his hands. The price of a clear mind. Gideon looks worried, asks why he didn't answer the door sooner, why he was eight hours late for work, why he's holding his arm awkwardly, why his eyes look so shadowed, why he's so thin, _why why why_. He hates to use the word sickness. Sickness allows for weakness - admits to weakness. So he doesn't say anything. He doesn't tell Gideon about his battle. He won't be weak. Not again.

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_I should probably have mentioned it from the beginning but so it doesn't get confusing with the way this is written, every time a person is referred to as 'he' its Reid, everyone else will always be called by name, even if it means it has to be twice in one sentence. Reid's name wont be mentioned at all while it is from his POV because though its third person it's still his perspective and saying his name would make it less personal._

_Also, these chapters are starting to be way too big to be considered anything close to drabbles (which is what I originally wrote), so because I am hopeless with word limits (even ones I set up myself :)) I'll try to make the chapters a little bigger - unless people like them smaller… let me know :)_

_Have fun x_


	6. Day 6

Their Christmas Candle

_"Christmas is a time when you get homesick - even when you're home." - Carol Nelson_

Everyone is giving him strange looks. No different than usual. There's something akin to panic in their concern-clouded, unfriendly eyes now though. There's a new fervency there that leaves him wondering if he forgot to wear pants today. Or if Gideon has said something. Not that there is anything Gideon can say. He made sure to say nothing of consequence. Nothing that the more experienced profiler could draw clues from. Not even his arm, hurting but unbroken as it is, can give him away. He can find nothing wrong; everything is perfectly fine, until he excuses himself quietly with only one stutter and a moment later sees his reflection in the bathroom mirror for the first time in days.

He is not worried or scared or concerned of, or for this strange skeletal thing looking at him. He feels nothing and is worried, scared and concerned by that instead. Scared of his own indifference. He wonder's if that's possible. Grammatically, no – it's an incongruous impossibility. He doesn't want to look any deeper than that.

He should stop. Now. Before anyone finds out. How can anyone not know? He has to stop. He had been doing so well. He had been so good. Then he had lost a few battles. But he can stop whenever he wants. He knows the logic behind the right decision, the statistics of those who lose their way in life – who lose their life – because of doing what he does. Did. He has stopped. He doesn't need it.

He feels the front of his messenger bag and his fingers conform to the cylindrical shapes in the front pocket. Thank God. Relief washes through him, strong, washing away any earlier emotion or lack thereof.

No one talks to him that day and talk more quietly when they're around him, as though a change in the pitch or frequency of background noise in the bullpen might shatter him. He highly doubts that's possible. In the silence no longer filled by JJ's carols he realises he doesn't have a statistic for just how impossible it should be.

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_Being scared of one's own indifference would be an oxymoron, but I figured a mention of any kind of moron – especially in this chapter so crammed with denial – would be too blatant :) - Reid will be helped... these things take time (12 days to be exact :)... but it_ will _happen :)_

_...reviews are love :)_

_Have fun x_


	7. Day 7

Their Christmas Candle

_"I do like Christmas on the whole... in its clumsy way it does approach peace and goodwill. But it is clumsier every year." - E. M. Forster_

He finds himself in a different state. The ride over in the jet had been difficult. Too close in proximity. No space. Hard to breathe the stifling, stale air. It had been a relief to leave the tense, heavy atmosphere that seemed to cling possessively for a few moments before reluctantly relinquishing its hold when he finally stepped out into the sun. Into another case. Another death. Seven of them. Too many. _Why them? _He finds himself thinking.

Not much in life seems fair at the best of times and yet he finds that in the past few days he has gained a new level of clarity. Nothing is fair. Nothing at all. Life is becoming a joke that he can finally guess the punch line to. There isn't a lot of point or purpose and none of it is fair.

He manages to control his thoughts and actions fairly well, as though he really is in control. His skin isn't really crawling, his head isn't really pounding, his hands aren't really shaking and he isn't really withdrawn and distracted and itching for what he has quit more than once. He is in control.

He even helps the case along and is happier than he has been in a long time when the case is solved quickly and he feels the relief of the team's success. Another case finished. Another UnSub stopped. Another seven families who can now attempt to find closure. And the team, they could all go home. Each of them thinking with longing of their variously decorated, colourful homes. He with his messy whiteness, his clear liquid, his fearful indifference. His unwavering control that he has to believe in, just in case doubt is what ends its tenuous existence. Just in case it never existed.

Seven people. Still too many. What had they done to deserve it? Why them? Why not him?

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_For the record, Reid's thoughts aren't necessarily suicidal, it depends how you take that last statement… well, the whole fic really :) - although they could be (I'll leave that up to you, much like the events that will happen in roughly four chapters time, I know I'm taking a long time to set the tone but hopefully it will be worth it :))._

_Reviews are love (and I love the reviews I have gotten so far, especially since I wasn't sure what people would think of this so thank you for all the positivity :) _

_Have fun x_


	8. Day 8

Their Christmas Candle

_"Christmas is the gentlest, loveliest festival of the revolving year - and yet, for all that, when it speaks, its voice has strong authority." - W. J. Cameron_

Hotch, JJ, Prentiss, Morgan, Garcia and Gideon. Well, not Garcia. They are all on the jet except Garcia. Garcia stayed in her safe, little nest of computer screens and easily accessible facts. Everyone else is on the jet. Another case. Another group of women who should still be alive but aren't and what so far looks to be another sexual sadist who hunted them down one by one. It turns his stomach and he isn't entirely sure why his hands shake any more, there are too many possible causes and he wants to get out – get away – but he can't. He feels trapped.

They are all in such close proximity and there is no way to get any privacy. Any _space_. Too close. Far too close. He can't breathe.

He feels a hand on his back and starts violently, noticing the heaviness of his own breathing when Morgan points it out to him with an unreadable expression and a false smile. He purposely calms himself, he can't afford anxiety. Claustrophobia can wait for when he is alone and no one will judge his coping methods.

Chest heaving, he gains control of his breathing somehow; forcing his chest to rise and fall steadily, inhaling and exhaling on his command, ignoring the difficulty of his actions and the suffocation that threatens to bring with it the dizzying hysteria of oxygen deprivation, causing him to hyperventilate. He can't afford to give in here. Control. _Control, control, control_. He knows he has it somewhere in him still. Despite how many times it has broken. It has to be there somewhere.

He feels like the air in this small, pressurized cabin must have turned to water at some point and thinks he must be slowly drowning - knows he has been for awhile - but he composes himself with difficulty. He even manages a small smile, one that lifts the corners of his lips and fails to reach his eyes. It surprises him. So, he _could _still do that. He had wondered.

Morgan's answering smile is much bigger. More genuine. Evidently, others have noticed his inability to register and express emotion, which has lately been much more obvious than it used to be. Especially given the heightened atmosphere that follows the team around; that they're all steeped in due to the time of year. Not many people can be seen who aren't wearing a permanent smile. Even the six of them, in their small pseudo family, despite their line of work. All smiling, all happy. Yet another thing he will have to monitor. Though, by the speculative look Gideon is giving him, it is clearly already being monitored.

---

_Yes Gideon is sussing him out, profiling, taking his time… as he does..._

_I only just noticed my complete lack of dialogue too… sorry if that's annoying… I'm trying to make it introspective… and really hope its working :) let me know,_

_Reviews are love and cookies :)_

_Have fun x_


	9. Day 9

Their Christmas Candle

_"Probably the reason we all go so haywire at Christmas time with the endless, unrestrained and often silly buying of gifts is that we don't quite know how to put our love into words." - Harlan Miller_

Gideon is far too close. None of the team are stupid. He knew that, from the very beginning - somewhere in the smartest corner of his lately, quite dim mind - he knew that it was always an inevitability that one of them would eventually figure it out. They're profilers. How could they not? The only thing that has kept them away for so long is the fact that it wasn't too long ago that the issue of privacy last came up, though he is unsure of who had been responsible. It happens too often. A person's past will be unearthed, a secret revealed and they are all reminded why it is they should respect each other's privacy. Those moments when their minds and bodies freeze and they know they've gone too far, dug too deep. Deep enough to hurt.

It never lasts long, they are all too close. They are a team. A Unit. They are, in the end, family. But the last breach in privacy was recent. And so each of his unfriendly friends seemed reluctant to interfere in matters they are unable to make some prior claim to. And he was glad for that.

His appearance and behaviour however, is putting an end to that period of uncertainty. And Gideon is too close.

But he cannot stop now. He will not be distracted by the shining ornaments that now populate most inanimate objects and inhabit the lonely corners of rooms. The mistletoe Morgan felt inclined to place over Hotch's door. The tinsel by the coffeepot that seems to have reproduced somehow and now covers the entire bench top, making it impossible to use. He must ignore the infestation of shine and colour and this emotion he is unfamiliar with that permeates the air and is mirrored in every set of eyes except his own.

He doesn't want to remember that emotion. He doesn't want to remember the last time he felt it. He doesnt want to remember all the times since then that he has felt nothing and known he should have, known he must just be... empty. He doesn't want to remember what he has forgotten to do this year, or that a card wouldn't reach her in time now. He must ignore it all, stay focused, stay in control. Even if he isn't entirely sure what it is he is supposed to be in control of anymore. He knows he can though. Because he has to fight this out of his system. And at the moment, to do that, it has to be from behind enemy lines. The prickling sensation in his arm agrees.

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_Slightly shorter chapter again but they're getting longer :) and Gideon's about to get his act together… ('bout time :))_

_Hope people are still reading, things are starting to get interesting :) - not many chapters to go (please let me know if you think I'm turning this into a trainwreck... I really hope not but you're the judge :)_

_And reviews are love, cookies and Christmas goodies :)_

_Have fun x_


	10. Day 10

Their Christmas Candle

_"Christmas, in short, is about the only chance a man has to be himself." - Francis C. Farley_

Life is rapidly becoming a dizzy blur, the kind that saps all his energy and makes him want to vomit constantly. Life isn't just unfair. It is painful. So painful. It hurts.

He had been right. Gideon had been too close. Is too close. Has always been too close. Right outside the door. Literally. Gideon is once again knocking on his door, insistent, demanding, and he is hard pressed to make sure everything is packed away and that he is wearing clothes and that he looks 'normal' before appearing and trying to answer in a calm, measured voice he doesn't quite achieve. As though he hasn't just been packing and checking. As though he isn't always trying to make himself appear normal when they both – they all – know he's not. Never has been. His chest heaves ever so slightly but Gideon pretends not to notice. How kind.

They talk. For a long time. Situating themselves on the small couch in his small living room, it's almost comfortable. Almost friendly. Almost.

So many chances to open up. To stop this. To accept help or support or forgiveness. Instead he lies. He can do this alone after all, this is his battle. Gideon wouldn't understand. He lies. He is fine. Life is good. He tries not to over-enunciate. He tries not to embellish. He tries to stay as close to the truth as possible. Gideon is a profiler. Gideon will know if he lies. If he lies _too _much. So he doesn't say life is fair, or kind, or easy, or enjoyable. He doesn't say he is healthy or happy or fine. Wait, he did. Gideon must just be being nice then. Fine is too much of a stretch. Not even _he _is a good enough liar for that. Yet after it all, all the lies, Gideon leaves.

Big, sad eyes. Disappointment. Guilt. Concern. The concern blocks the friendship and he knows now that he has no one. And he is not fine. It _hurts_.

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_The last two chapters are bigger than the rest so two long chapters on the way… nearly over… Reid's pain is nearly over… read into that what you will :)_

_Hope everyone is ready for Christmas, (presents bought, etc… if not… well, good luck :D) _

_Reviews are love :)_

_Have fun x_


	11. Day 11: Christmas Eve

Their Christmas Candle

_"I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress." - May Sarton_

_The clear liquid reflects his haunted, shadowed gaze. Distorted. Everything is distorted. Nothing appears normal in his eyes anymore. After all that's happened it's hard to believe that he could ever be normal again. _

Now he knows why it was hard to believe. The phials scream at him.

_He wonders if it will be possible. He dearly hopes so. He used to like his life._

Now he knows. It is not possible. The semblance of normalcy he was hoping to achieve doesn't exist. The façade of normalcy he had been hoping to fool others with was pathetically flimsy and yet they hadn't seen through it. He doesn't like his life. Not like this. The syringe is full and his eyes are no longer visible in the surrounding dark.

_Now it's a struggle. A constant battle. He likes to think it's a battle. Because in battles there are casualties. And he's always liked to keep his options open. He would rather think it a hard uphill struggle, a fight, because that way if he fails at least he's tried. And that will count for something. _

But it hasn't. He hates to admit that, but it's the truth. It's all come to nothing. He remembers telling Morgan in a moment of anger over broken confidence that that's what he got for trusting someone. Now he knows he can't even trust himself. He has nothing. It's all come to nothing. Possibly the only truth he has acknowledged for quite some time. He can't feel the needle as it breaks the skin.

_If he admits it's simply a failure, a temptation, and he gives in... he doesn't think he can handle being weak._

And he can't. Not alone. Not with his friends who are no longer friends watching. Not like this.

_He used to like his life. Now it's a battle. One which he's not sure he wants to win._

Now he knows. He never wanted to win. The drug clouds his mind, life blurs, sound and sight and feeling and emotion fade to nothing. No, not sight. Not completely. In a daze he sees the neon numbers from somewhere overhead. 11.59.

Some part of his mind, the child he thought had died long ago perhaps; the child he thought he had killed with work and lack of emotion, reminds him its Christmas Eve. That it is for a minute longer. One minute. It's come down to a minute. And then there's nothing.

He doesn't see when the clock ticks over.

_25. His calendar doesn't celebrate the box holding the two figures, or their significance. Christmas is just like any other day. Just another box of nothing. _

_It seems irrelevant. It all does as he lies miserably alone on the carpet._

---

_Poor Reid (for some reason people keep saying that in reviews... odd... :)), hope your Christmas Eve is better than his was… not that that would be a hard feat to achieve really. Please don't kill me for this chapter and remember there's still one to go :) - *ducks behind something anyway* :) - and by the way, just for fun, hands up anyone who thinks this will end well?_

_Reviews are love (as long as they're not death threats… oh, go on then :))_

_Have fun and Merry Christmas (Eve... for tomorrow... or whenever...) :) x_


	12. Day 12: Christmas Day

Their Christmas Candle

_"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen." - Unknown_

Everyone sits. Everyone laughs. Exchanging presents and food and drink. Bright paper hats that don't seem to fit anyone add colour to the room. This white, white room.

Hotch and Gideon are silent. Always silent. Large smiles give them away.

JJ and Prentiss are dressed up. They look beautiful. JJ's shoes are especially nice.

Morgan sits and eats and laughs the loudest, making sure to say the jokes to be laughed at first. Prying the laughter from everyone else.

If anyone were to walk past the room at this moment it would be impossible to distinguish the slightest of differences in their usual behaviour. But then, they are family. And they are profilers. They can tell. Morgan's laugh is just as loud and unrestrained as always, but his eyes are sad. JJ's eyes sparkle as much as always, but her fingers twitch every so often, wanting to reach for another's. Prentiss acts as strong and controlled as always; only those in the room notice how she bites her bottom lip occasionally to stop its tremors. Hotch and Gideon, both silent, both smiling. No one ever knows what goes on in their heads. But she can guess. It's the same thought that flits persistently through each of their minds every single second they spend here.

Reid. In the white, white room on the too-large bed in his too-large gown, looking as though he's drowning and its only today, of all days, that the team learn that he has been for quite some time. _Not waving but drowning_ as a famous poet once said. She is sure Gideon would remember who it was. She is sure Reid would know.

They sit around him now in a protective circle. Nothing could possibly break through the defenses they have set up. Nothing except Reid's mind. His fantastic, inspiring, genius mind that has been doing that all along. Breaking down his defenses and crushing him, destroying him from the inside where they cannot reach. Where they can't protect. He had been too quiet. His occasional and brief moments full of fast facts and talkativeness amongst his characteristic reticence has been replaced by the near silence of nothing but light breathing.

Though, she finds, this is enough for now. Because in the brief silences in the room he can be heard still. He can be heard now.

He hasn't ruined Christmas. Just the opposite. They are together. Reid has managed to bring them all together on a day that they usually spend apart. They had all noticed his recent behaviour. How could they not? They had all tried to help, unsure of how they could and where the line was between helping and prying. No one wanted to pry. They had tried respecting his privacy. They had all watched from a distance as he slipped deeper into his own darkness, all unsure of what to do, how to help. All feeling useless and guilty and uncertain of what they could - or couldn't - do about it. And in being so uncertain, they had done nothing. The guilt was worse now.

They had all been saddened, no, distraught when the call from Gideon came.

It was he who had been most surprised this morning, Christmas morning, though she is unable to see it in his face now as she looks to him across the prone form on the bed. He who had been surprised by what he found when he checked in on Reid - checking that he was okay after a day of no word and still worried by the conversation they had shared the day before that which had left Gideon scared and shaken. Surprised to find that their young, brilliant genius was on the floor of his messy apartment, his much-loved books surrounding his broken body and an empty needle, an empty glass phial and a length of rubber tubing sitting so innocently near his head; he head he had been trapped in for too long. Surprised by only the faintest of life signs. Surprised by just how scary it was to watch him being wheeled, half dead, into the back of an ambulance that had shown up a frantic ten minutes later. Surprised by how much it hurt. Gideon hates surprises. They all know it. Now they know why.

They are all distraught in their own little ways. Some more noticeably than others. All sitting, eating, drinking, laughing and wishing for one of those fabled Christmas miracles. They all wonder why Reid would ever do that, why he was using, why he felt he had to, why he thought he couldn't go to them – _any_ of them – for help. Why this had to happen to _him_. _Why, why, why_.

Only his suddenly fluttering lashes against his pale skin lift their spirits, and they soar as they see the spark is still there in his slowly opening eyes. They are a team. A unit. A family. And now they are finally all here. Her soft murmur is like a hug;

"Hey kid, Happy Christmas". And it is.

_"A Christmas candle is a lovely thing; it makes no noise at all, but softly gives itself away." - Eva Logue_

_xxx_

_Merry Christmas everyone, and thank you so much for reading, especially to those who reviewed and helped along the way :) Sue1313, dailyangel, __Lin Hades, Lessien-Calafalas, Lake-Of-The-Torches., ambrelynn and kimidragon_ _(Cookies for all) _

_By the way, 'Not Waving But Drowning' is a poem by Stevie Smith that is particularly morbid and I thought of it while writing this chapter – especially when it came to Reid in this fic… it's not a bad poem, and also, just in case, this chapter's from Garcia's POV… hopefully the fact that she noticed JJ's shoes helped give it away :) (Anyone think that was an odd choice?) :) - and let me know if you think this fic needs summing up better or in Reid's words or a sequel or anything at all (I really enjoyed writing this and hearing what people thought of it so I'm open to anything :)_

_Hope everyone has a fantastic day (or few days depending on how you celebrate) and a great New Year. _

_Thanks for reading :)_

_Have fun, smile lots and stay safe x_


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